


the politics of coffee making

by ellenm (quasiradiant)



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 04:30:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/315843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quasiradiant/pseuds/ellenm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>hospital AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the politics of coffee making

Quinn practically pounces on the coffee pot. She pours half a lukewarm cup and drinks it down in two quick gulps, then empties the last of the coffee from the pot into her cup. She replaces the glass carafe.

“Ah, ah,” comes the voice from behind her. She turns, and Santana’s there, sprawled out across the nappy beige couch in wrinkled blue scrubs. “Can’t you read?” Above the pot, a handwritten sign delicately explains the politics of coffee making: “Don’t be the asshole who doesn’t make a new pot.”

Quinn sighs and ponders her predicament. She usually wouldn’t get caught but apparently the lack of sleep is catching up with her. “Would you believe that I don’t know how the machine works? I actually go from machine to machine, making sure that I don’t take the last of the pot.” It’s the truth, the kind of truth that Quinn’s been sliding by on since she started her residency. She leans her hip against the counter.

Santana holds her gaze for so long Quinn’s eyes start to ache. Santana may or may not believe her, but eventually she sighs and pushes herself up from the couch. “Dr. Fabray, you are a fucking idiot.” She rolls a shoulder, and Quinn can hear the pop! from across the room.

She walks over to Quinn, pushes her out the way with a sharp elbow. “Seriously, it’s a coffeemaker, not brain surgery.”

Quinn snorts. “What would you know about brain surgery, Doctor Lopez?” She cradles the coffee cup to her chest and doesn’t try to hide her smirk.

“Oh, please.” Santana tosses the used filter and grounds into the trashcan, coming precariously close to dirtying Quinn’s pristine white coat. Quinn steps to the side and decides not to say anything, because she probably deserved worse. “If we were all neurosurgeons,” Santana drawls out, turning the word into a slur, “there would be a lot of dead people up in this hospital.”

Quinn rolls her eyes. “Twenty pairs of fake boobs a week, Santana? You’re really doing the Lord’s work here at Lima Memorial. You’re practically a saint.”

Santana sets the fresh filter into the machine and spoons coffee carefully from the can into the filter. Each spoonful is precise, an act of control. “This never gets old, Quinn. Can we just skip to the end where you stomp off because, once again, I’ve out-bitched you?”

Quinn laughs sharply. Santana leans to fill the carafe with water from the tap, and Quinn shakes her head. “Sure, that’s why I stomp off. Because you always win, Santana. You’ve found me out.” She takes a sip of the now truly foul coffee in her cup and wishes that she could just get a cup from the new pot and disappear. Santana makes every minute at Lima Memorial a freaking nightmare, and Quinn is usually much better at avoiding her.

Santana pours the water into the coffeemaker, presses the button, and almost immediately the sweet sound of coffee brewing burbles from inside the machine. She turns and looks at Quinn, hands on her hips and eyes narrowed.

“Why else would you go so far out of your way to avoid me, Fabray?” Santana takes a step closer to Quinn. The blossoming scent of coffee mixes with the sharp smell of surgical soap and whatever citrusy perfume Santana wears. “You afraid of me? Think I’m gonna drop a scalpel or something?”

Quinn takes a step back, but it just puts her back up against the door. Precarious and uncomfortable if anybody chooses this moment to come into the residents’ lounge. “I just don’t like you, Lopez. You’re a, a,” she stumbles, “a bitch.”

Santana takes a slow step forward, pressing Quinn back against the door. Her teeth are white and bright as she smiles. “Yes, I am.” She puts her mouth close to Quinn’s ear, and Quinn feels the sharp stab of arrhythmia in her chest. “But I don’t think that’s what you’re avoiding.”

The moment hangs in the air, sharp like a knife, like a knee to the gut. Santana reaches out and pushes a stray lock of Quinn’s hair behind Quinn’s ear, and Quinn feels it to the tips of her toes.

She puts her hands on Santana’s arms, soft, testing the muscles under Santana’s skin. She leans forward, languid, and then whispers. “Santana?”

Santana smiles again. “Quinn?”

Quinn pushes her back, hard, and Santana stumbles. She looks up at Quinn, shocked and angry and, just maybe, delighted. “My bad,” Santana finally says. “I must have misunderstood.” The corner of her mouth quirks into the start of a smile.

She tosses her ponytail over her shoulder as she turns and heads back to the couch. “Enjoy your coffee, Fabray,” she says as she leans back against the cushions. “Let me know if you need help with anything else.”

Quinn turns back to the coffeemaker. If she smiles, Santana will never know. “Will do.”

Quinn refills her cup and heads out of the lounge back into the quiet routine of the hospital at night. As the door closes, Quinn can hear Santana laughing and, actually, the coffee’s really, really good.


End file.
